Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/Fragment

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

FRAGMENT.

CURST is yon stream that glides singing along;Curst are the banks that must hear its grim song;Curst are the pebbles that sleep in its bed;And curst is the pool that lies at its head.

Demons of evil dance near it at night;Shadows flit o'er it when Luna is bright—Dim, ghostly shadows, that have in their eyeThe dregs of a curse that never must die.

Phantom-like fingers oft dip in its wave,Making a plash like a knell of the grave,Sprinkling the wave-drops like poisonous blood,Ruffling the breast of the ebon-like flood.

Gigantic hemlocks lament by its side,Moaning a dirge o'er the fast flowing tide,Casting their shadows, that fall like a blightAthwart the deep gloom of the Stygian night.*****